Toxicity
by JDPhoenix
Summary: After his battle with Jupiter, Nephrite licks his wounds.


Disclaimer: I make no claim to own Sailor Moon or any related characters. I just wanted to take a couple of them out to play because apparently I ship this now.

AN: Takes place immediately after SMC episode 5 "Makoto - Sailor Jupiter." Obviously contains SPOILERS for that episode.

* * *

It took all his willpower not to slam the door shut behind him but doing so would only alert his queen to his return. Doubtless she already knew of his defeat; Nephrite could feel her ire from here.

He slumped against the wall as green flame burst to life in the sconces circling the room. Beaten. Again. And by yet another new senshi. Where were these brats coming from? How many of them could there possibly be?

_ Five_.

The answer presented itself in the forefront of his mind but he had no idea where it had come from. He only knew it was true. Five, so there would be one more.

He didn't like those odds, not when the newest had so soundly beaten him without any aid from the others.

The ache in his arm grew incrementally, reminding him there was a reason for his hiding. He didn't want to face his queen like this, with the symbols of his failure evident on his body. He pushed away from the wall and gingerly pulled his coat off. First the left arm and then carefully over the injury on the right.

He could have used some of the stolen energies to heal himself but there was no doubt she would know, just as she already knew of his failure. He would not give her further cause to punish him.

It was difficult to wrap the wound with only one arm but he managed it with the aid of his teeth. The coat would need mending as well before he presented himself and it would not be so simple. He sat upon the edge of his bed, needle and thread at the ready. The tools were easy enough to find but the particulars of using them were maddening. His hands still shook from the fight. Fight! Ha! He had not been able to _move_ in the face of her.

No. Not because of her. For all her brave words she was just a girl. It was her blasted flowers that held him still. They must have been poisoned. That's what caused his moment of weakness and his defeat today would only better prepare him to face her in the future. It was but one battle in a greater war and he would be the victor come the end. They would be.

Yes, yes. Beryl would like those pretty words.

His defense readied, he focused again on his coat and cursed. While his brain was busy thinking up a strategy for the coming inquisition, his body had carried on with the mending and done a poor job of it. Jagged, overlarge stitches held the cloth together, leaving gaping holes. He quickly tore them out to begin again, cursing himself all the while.

Laughter, light and feminine sounded. It was not Beryl's voice and he could think of no other woman who might be present. He looked up and found no one. He shook himself. Poison. Definitely poison in the flowers.

He gritted his teeth and brought all his attention to bear on the task at hand. His grip on the needle was so tight it was a miracle he did not snap it in two.

The laughter sounded again and this time he recognized it was not real laughter, but some trick of his mind. There was no one with him in the room but he saw hands, long and delicate, rest over his.

"You're doing it all wrong."

He looked up into eyes as green as a lush forest. There was no malice in them now, no threats, no anger. She _smiled_ at him and he felt himself drawn to that smile. He wanted to return it.

Her smile grew and she shook her head as if in response to something he said.

"Here," she said.

She lifted his arms and twisted beneath them, bringing her back against his chest. Despite a brief moment of careful angling, they fit together quite easily. Her hands held his, her strength evident but not at all a frightening thing. Her touch was firm but gentle.

"Like this," she said patiently and guided his fingers through the mending. Halfway through she released him, allowing him to continue the rhythm on his own. Her body sagged into his. When he tied the string off without any further instruction she turned her face to his, a smile on her lips. He wanted that smile for his own, wanted to bend down and-

Nephrite leapt up. His heart pounded wildly in his chest but he stood frozen, not from any poison barb but from simple horror. He stared unseeing at the spot he had just vacated, the spot he could have sworn he saw her, _felt_ her.

Slowly, his coat slipped from the edge of the bed to the floor. Gentle though it was, the sound of it falling in a heap was enough to bring him back to himself.

"_Witch_," he growled.

He hastily grabbed up the coat and was glad to see the stitching had been completed and completed well during his … episode. Disconcerting as it was to know he was capable of accomplishing tasks while so out of his own control, it was a relief not to have to try again and risk another hallucination.

He shrugged the coat on, relishing the pain that spiked through his arm as he moved it less than gently. Pain would only remind him of what he _truly_ wanted, to destroy that retched new senshi. He would use this anger to add venom to his words when he spoke to Beryl. She would see his rage and give him another chance.

He had the presence of mind to stop at the mirror on his way out the door. The stitching was holding up but in the dull light, his eyes were immediately drawn to a spot of pink tangled in his hair. He lifted shaking fingers to the petal and brought it before his face. The faint scent of roses and pine and storm clouds teased past his nose. Again he saw those green eyes. This time they were as they should be, full of rage and hate. It was his reaction to them that was different, so different it unsettled him all over again.

He dropped the petal and grabbed at his injured arm, digging his fingers in until he wanted to scream. _She_ did this, she caused this pain, and she would pay.

He gulped down air, carefully regaining his control. He checked his reflection again to ensure there were no more surprises and that his grasping had neither torn his stitches nor caused him to bleed through the cloth. Once satisfied with his appearance, he headed for the throne room.

When he shut the door behind him, the fire faded down to embers, casting the room in even deeper grays. The single point of color in the room remained where he had let it fall, the pink of the rose petal seemingly brighter as if in defiance of its grim surroundings.


End file.
